by Matt Hilton
“I’m called Joe Hunter. Heard of me?”
Something moved in the recesses of his gaze and I knew that he had. The Hispanics shared a glance, and I recognized fear. Good enough, I thought. They knew who I was and what I was capable of. That should smooth the process of getting answers from them.
“Do you know why I’m here?” I asked.
Whalen shook his head slightly, fearful of making too big a movement that might jostle my trigger finger. “No,” he wheezed.
“Candice Berry,” I said.
“Wh . . . who . . . ?” Whalen said.
I withdrew the gun from his mouth, brought it down on the side of his big skull. The clack of metal on bone was louder than the moans of the onscreen antics. “Don’t play me for an idiot,” I growled, and stepped away from him so that I could cover all three.
Whalen pressed a palm to his injured head. It began to swell instantly, and a trickle of blood streaked down his cheek and dripped from his chin. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.
“Hurts, does it?” I asked. “Not as bad as a bullet to the back of the head.”
As I said it, I watched the Hispanics for a reaction and again I caught a nervous glance between them. The one to the far left squinted at his pal, shook his head very slightly.
“OK,” I went on, directing my question to the Hispanics. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Which one of you murdered Candice?”
“Wasn’t me, man,” the one on the right said very quickly.
His friend shot him a look to curdle milk. “Wasn’t me, either,” he added lamely.
“What do you say, Whalen? Which of your buddies pulled the trigger?”
Whalen patted at the bleeding lump on his head. “I couldn’t say, man. I wasn’t there.”
“Just like you, isn’t it? You point the weapon but haven’t the balls to pull the trigger. So you get these dickless fools to do it for you.”
The man on the left was growing more nervous by the second. His tongue was darting in and out as he licked dry lips. He made a show of reaching for an ashtray, supposedly to douse his joint. I played stupid, as if I was fooled by the innocuous move. I even gave him further opportunity by holding Whalen under my gaze.
“Pointless denying it. We all know who killed Candice, and it doesn’t matter who was the triggerman. You were all in it together, and to me that makes you all equally responsible. What I don’t get is why any of you would take the fall for an asshole like Mick O’Neill.” I smirked at the way Whalen’s head came up at mention of his boss’s name. “Ah, I see I’ve guessed right,” I went on. “O’Neill had you kill the woman. For what? Because she’d witnessed what happened to William Murray?”
“I ain’t saying nothing, and neither are any of my guys,” Whalen said angrily. He cast a surreptitious glance at the Hispanic who was now creeping a hand toward his left ankle. “What you goin’ to do: shoot us? Better that what O’Neill will do to us if we squeal.”
“One thing I do know, Whalen. O’Neill won’t have you dropped from his roof. Fat bastard like you hitting the deck, he’ll have to have the foundations to his building rebuilt.”
“Fuck you,” Whalen snapped. He was actually braver than I’d initially taken him for. He tried to draw my fire by flicking out his hand and sending a palmful of his blood toward my face. His distraction would have worked if I hadn’t been expecting it. I stepped deeply to one side, and the blood sprayed over the TV screen. At the same time, I aimed my gun not at the fat man but at the Hispanic on the far left, who was coming up with a snub-nosed revolver in hand, the one which he’d snuck out of the holster on his ankle.
I fired before he did, and my round struck him in the throat, destroyed his trachea, and he fell back, gurgling on the blood flooding his throat.
His friend let out a scream, a mixture of terror and rage, and fought to pull his gun from his shoulder holster. I shot him through the chest, then, as his hands flopped, put another round in his open mouth.
By then, Whalen was up, and he knew he was a dead man and went for broke. He lurched at me with his hands going for my neck, intent on crushing the life from me. He’d more chance at killing me if he fell on top and smothered me to death. He wasn’t armed, and I wasn’t happy about killing him in cold blood. But then I thought about Candice Berry, and pictured her children waiting at home for their mom who’d never return to them, and decided, fuck it. I shot Whalen through the heart, three times in quick succession.
He crashed down on his front as I sidestepped his girth. Even if the gunfire hadn’t already woken them, the thump of his body on floorboards would rouse the Thai staff downstairs. Time to get out of there.
Ideally I’d planned gaining an admission from Whalen and his cronies, and though it probably would have ended in them dead, had hoped to rig the scene so that it looked like they’d fallen out and killed each other. Having blasted them all with my gun it meant I had to get rid of the weapon before it was tied back to the scene through forensic investigation and ballistics reports. Pissed me off: I liked that gun.
HOLKER AND VANMETER would suspect that I was responsible for the deaths of Whalen and his crew, but I was certain that I couldn’t be incriminated. My gun had been stripped to its component parts, the barrel drilled out to destroy the unique rifling, and then each bit deposited out in Hillsborough Bay. Gloves, clothes, and shoes had all been incinerated and I’d scrubbed my hair, face, and body to remove even the tiniest trace of gunshot residue. There was no CCTV footage available, and no one had seen me as I returned to my parked car—or if they had, I got no hint of them. My greatest fear was that one or more of the Thai restaurant staff had got a look at me, but maybe loud noise and crashing weights was a feature they’d come to expect from an upstairs neighbor like Whalen and they’d slept through the entire incident. That, or being largely illegal immigrants, they’d keep their mouths shut for fear the police started digging into their backgrounds.
I didn’t let fear of discovery slow me.
Whalen hadn’t exactly admitted that O’Neill had ordered Candice Berry murdered, but neither had he denied it. His reactions, and outspoken denials, were enough to confirm it to me. Sure, such evidence would never sway a jury in court, but that’s why O’Neill continued to get away with his crimes. Well, no longer. Rink would have been proud of me: I devised a plan.
IN THE EARLY hours of the following morning, I was standing on Columbia Drive, looking up at the back of O’Neill’s building. I’d kept my word to Holker and hadn’t gone near Channel Drive, but there was no need when there was a back way into the building one block over. To my right I could see the runway lights of Peter O. Knight Airport, but there were no flights taking off or landing. There was no traffic on the roads, and no pedestrians. I walked forward, dressed now in black T-shirt, black combat trousers with bulging pockets, black boots. I’d replaced my SIG Sauer for another one of the same model from one of my stashes throughout the city. Some people have queried why I prefer a 9mm SIG Sauer to other guns. The pat answer is that it’s the gun I’m most familiar with from my days training in the skill of Point Shooting, but that’s only part of the story. See, .44 and .357 rounds are man killers, whereas the smaller 9mm round can’t be relied upon. However, a .44 or .357 will also put a hole right through a man’s torso, and that’s fine if he’s the only one in your line of fire. When I was taking on terrorists, often there were hostages to take into consideration. Last thing you wanted was to plug a terrorist, only for the bullet to also hit the innocent person behind them. I always preferred a 9mm, so that there was less chance of collateral damage.
When William Murray took his one-way flight to earth, there had been two women in O’Neill’s apartment. Long ago I’d promised I’d never willingly make war on women or children—of course that’s a rose-tinted view of the world, because there are some nasty, evil, and dangerous bitches out there—and it was a promise I’
d rather keep. If it was avoidable I didn’t want to shoot O’Neill and also kill his girlfriends behind him.
Other residents lived in O’Neill’s building. The ground and next floor up was utilized as office space. Floor three was a communal area. Floors four through fourteen were leased to people with more money than sense. Floor fifteen—in order to promote the privacy of the penthouse suite—had been left vacant. Two elevator shafts gave access, one of which was an express service used strictly by O’Neill and guests. The second elevator only went as far as floor fourteen, but that was close enough for my purposes. I slipped inside the building, avoided the sleeping concierge, and entered the elevator. The car rode smoothly to the fourteenth floor and the doors whispered open.
Although there was only one official route to or from the penthouse, those with fire and safety regulations in mind had other ideas. There was a stairwell that could be accessed via the penthouse, which joined the staircase the other residents of the building would use in the event of a fire or other emergency. On fourteen, a fire door blocked access upward, but could be opened from the other side by anyone fleeing the penthouse by the simple manipulation of push bars. If I’d had a sledgehammer at hand, I could have forced a way through, but that would alert O’Neill that I was coming. Instead, I made my way to a window and slid it open. I leaned out, looked up and saw that there was a similar window to the fifteenth floor six or so feet above my head. The walls were decorated with ornately carved features, and offered hand- and footholds for a daring climber.
Luck and daring was always something I relied upon. I clambered up onto the sill, then inserted my fingertips between two concrete seams and hauled myself up and out. I’ll admit that the climb wasn’t the easiest or even most skillful, but I made it to the next sill a few minutes later. Here, the outer sill was two feet deep and I was able to crouch tight to the side of the building, exposed to anyone on the ground but also relatively safe from a long fall. I’d come prepared for the next obstacle, and took out a glass cutter from my pants pocket. It was a contraption that could be attached to a window by way of a suction cup and had a diamond-tipped scribe at its circumference. Pressing cup to window, I pulled over the lever that caused the cup to concave, create a vacuum to seal it solidly to the glass. Then I wound the handle around a few times. When I tugged on the suction cup it came away, still attached to the circle of glass I’d cut. Then it was a simple task to insert my hand through the gap, throw the catch and shove open the window. I placed the glass cutter and circle of glass in my pocket. And then I was on the stairs and on my way up to O’Neill’s pad.
I could see that the short flight of stairs was rarely used. Dust stood like icing sugar on each step. I didn’t bother avoiding it, but my boots would have to go the way of the ones I’d worn to Whalen’s apartment. I made it to the top and found a featureless door, with no handle. It could only be opened from within O’Neill’s penthouse. That was assuming I wanted to use a door handle. I took out a screwdriver and went to work on the hinges, working out the pins. The door wasn’t a security fixture after all. Once the pins were out, I wedged the screwdriver into each hinge in turn, giving each a gentle twist to break the friction of the workings. Afterward I listened, checking that I hadn’t raised the alarm.
When I was happy that no one had stirred from slumber, I used the screwdriver to lever the door out of the frame, and the entire thing came loose in my hands. After jiggling the door lock free of its retainer, I carried the door out of the way and set it down. The screwdriver went in my opposite pocket, and I took out my gun, plus a Gerber knife.
The penthouse was huge, taking up most of the upper floor, but it had been separated into a number of rooms and I found myself in a utility passage. Cleaning supplies dominated one room, a laundry another. I doubted O’Neill was familiar with either space, and suspected that his live-in home helps handled all the domestic chores around the place. I moved past them and found another door. Gently I tried the handle and this one gave in my grasp. I teased open the door. All was in darkness, but at the far end of the hall shone a dim night-light, which offered enough illumination to guide me. I could smell a hodgepodge of odors, cooking smells, cigar smoke, alcohol, and men’s farts. I had expected to find the penthouse plush, but it was more akin to a crack house I supposed that money didn’t necessarily make you house-proud. I moved into the main living area. Expensive furniture was half buried beneath discarded clothing, food wrappers, newspapers, and beer bottles and cans. O’Neill and his crew looked to have been celebrating and I could only assume that it was because the threat of Candice Berry had been removed.
I turned from the room, seeking O’Neill’s bedroom.
That was when a door burst open behind me and a huge man leaned out, wrapped his arms around me and lifted me up in the air. The giant shook me like a rag doll, while someone else grabbed my gun hand and ripped loose my SIG. Before I could think of using the Gerber on them, my own gun was shoved in my face. “Drop it, asshole!”
I dropped the knife, and the monster holding me slung me down on the floor. My head ringing, I blinked up as a light came on and stark beams filled the place. Standing over me was a trio of men I recognized as O’Neill’s buddies from the day William Murray went off the roof. Thankfully, the women weren’t around. Which went to prove that I’d walked into a trap.
Another man came out of a bedroom farther down the corridor. He was fully dressed—albeit casually—in loafers, blue jeans, and a pale green shirt. His silver mane of hair, long at the back and curled at the temples, gave him a wannabe Richard Branson look. He stood gloating as he tapped the screen of his iPhone.
“When I got word of Marvin Whalen’s untimely death, was it any wonder I’d prepare for a visitor of my own?” asked Mick O’Neill. He was in his late fifties, had been in America for the best part of twenty years now, but he still retained a Dublin accent. There was some suggestion he had been a real IRA hitter in the old days.
My mouth tasted of blood. I’d bitten my tongue when O’Neill’s pet gorilla had thrown me to the floor. I swallowed before answering. “You were expecting me?”
“I was. You could have come earlier and saved me the long feckin’ wait.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” I said.
“Sarcastic bastard,” O’Neill said. He flicked his hand at the big man. “Get him up off the floor.”
The big man hauled me up and fed his arms through my elbows, yanking both arms up my back. The other two men pointed my weapons at me.
“What you going to do?” I asked O’Neill. “Hand me over to the police? Or will you make me take a dive off the roof the way you did William Murray?”
“You won’t go the same way as that little tow rag. You’re going out the same way as you came in. Shame, eh?” He grinned at his men. “Some burglar tries to rob my apartment, only to slip and fall to his death when cutting his way in through the window? Take this prick back down the way he just came, boys.”
I was bundled back past the utility rooms and to the door I’d lifted out of its hinges.
“Remind me to have something a bit more sturdy fitted, will you, lads? I can’t be having every Tom, Dick, and Harry swanning in and out of here whenever they like,” said O’Neill.
The four of them hemmed me into the space at the bottom of the stairwell, the big man still holding me tightly. O’Neill studied where I’d cut the glass from the window. He indicated the bulges in my pockets. “Take out his glass cutter,” he told one of the men. To the other, he said, “Go fix the door. It can’t be seen that he actually made it further inside than here.”
While one of the men went to see to resetting the hinges, O’Neill called after him, “Make sure you leave the door open for us to get back in. Everything will go to shit if we get trapped out here.”
Then O’Neill was back in my face.
“The feck’s any of this got to do with you, anyway?”
“He was a two-bit little thief, and he was skimming money off my profits,” O’Neill said.
“Is that it, the reason you had him thrown from your roof? He stole from you?”
“I had to make a statement to all the other little skanks who run the streets for me,” O’Neill said. “That little punk, Murray, actually came to me on bended knees, tried to reason with me. He said he was in a relationship now, he’d got hisself a girlfriend, and the extra money he skimmed was to help feed her bastard brats. The feckin’ nerve of it! He stole from me to feed a whore’s offspring? What does he think I am, the feckin’ Red Cross?”
After pulling out my glass cutter, the thug handed it to O’Neill. O’Neill took it from him, wiped it down with the tails of his shirt, then approached the window. “Have to make this look real if I’m going to fool the cops a second time,” he crowed as he pulled open the window. He leaned out, allowed the glass cutter and circle of glass to drop. A few seconds later I heard the tinkle as both hit ground. “Hell, that’s a long fall.” O’Neill grinned. “Not as far as Murray fell, but still far enough.”
“You’d made an example of Murray,” I said, “thrown him off the roof, but why kill Candice Berry?”
“I didn’t. Marvin Whalen sorted that out for me, as you already know.”
“You’re splitting hairs, O’Neill. It was your order that murdered the woman.”
“Aye, it was at that,” he said. “When we chucked her boyfriend off the roof we didn’t know he’d brought her along with him. She was down there,” he pointed toward the plaza, “waiting for him. Fair enough, she didn’t speak to anyone about what happened. She knew better. But it wasn’t a risk I was about to take. I’m careful like that. Same as when some of my boys end up murdered by some fucked-up vigilante. I take precautions. Got you dead to rights, my lad.”
